


Bright be Your Waking

by erebones



Series: Song of My Heart [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Injury, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hush ye, my bairnie <br/>Bonny wee dearie, <br/>Hark to your Song, <br/>An’ wait for your laddie. <br/>Sleep! The evening is <br/>Heavy and weary. <br/>Closed be your eyes <br/>For rest ye be takin' <br/>Sound be your sleepin' <br/>And bright be your wakin'…”</p><p>Ori wakes early, and sends his partner back to sleep with some sweet loving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright be Your Waking

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Made and Remade the Necklace of Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/631131) by [pibroch (littleblackdog)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch). 



> I knew I wouldn't be able to leave it alone. Enjoy this little postlude to "Sing Me a Lullaby," since apparently no fic of mine is complete without the obligatory smut. Still set in littleblackdog's Heartsong 'verse.

Ori wakes slowly, cradled in warmth and softness: furs, piled on thick enough to muffle him against the chilly air. The room’s window-screen hasn’t yet been replaced, and winter is almost upon them. Today, he decides, he will see about it himself. He isn’t really tall enough for the job, but that’s what stepladders are for. If he waits until Dwalin is feeling up to it, they won’t have screens until next summer.

He shifts slightly, trying for a breath of fresh air, and the giant mountain at his back growls in its sleep. Ori can’t quite keep the smile off his face. Dwalin’s a light sleeper, even with the medicines he takes every day, but if Ori’s very careful and skilled, he knows he can get him back to sleep for a few more hours.

“You should be asleep,” he whispers, turning over in bed.

Dwalin’s eyes are closed, but Ori can tell by the twitching of his moustache that he’s awake. “How can I sleep, wit’ you wigglin’ and wrigglin’ every which way?” he rumbles without opening his eyes. 

“I only just woke up,” Ori protests softly, “I haven’t been _wriggling_.” He belies his words by shifting a little bit closer, stroking the backs of his fingers down Dwalin’s craggy face. “Do you need some persuading?”

Dwalin’s lips turn up slightly. “Aye, I might at that.”

Ori needs no encouragement. He leans forward, resting their brows together gently in the early morning stillness. Between them, shared breaths puff misty white into the air, and the warmth beneath the furs surges as Ori presses his lips softly, so softly, against Dwalin’s eyelids. One by one he tastes the half-moons of his eyelashes, dark and spidery against the thin, wrinkled skin. Then up, the bow of Ori’s top lip cupping Dwalin’s old scar as he drags his mouth up his brow to the beginning of new stitches. The bandages have finally come off, after weeks of constant poultices and dressings; it soothes Ori’s battered heart to see Dwalin healing so well.

“Are ye goin’ to kiss me to sleep, lad?” Dwalin grumbles without heat.

“I might if you would let me,” Ori whispers back, pressing his smile to the center of Dwalin’s forehead. The skin here is tougher, weathered from years of exposure, and warm and faintly oily from the night’s sleep. Ori rubs his lips back and forth, enjoying the rasp of his chapped skin against the smooth dome before drawing away. “I think you might prefer something else, though.”

“Ye know me well.” Dwalin sighs and turns, settling onto his back. He is not quite so bulky when he wears only a thin shift, but he’s still far larger than Ori, even without the fur and mail to add breadth and depth to his shoulders and chest. It used to intimidate him, when his Heartsong was still a precious and dreadful secret. Now it warms him, fuels a fire in his breast, and he eagerly rolls atop his mate, careful of the bruising on his abdomen and the wound still healing in his thigh. He bows his head and kisses the very center of Dwalin’s chest, exposed by the loose button-holes at the top of his nightshift.

Almost immediately, the dwarf begins to purr with contentment, a rumbling hum that sounds as if a giant cat has lodged itself inside his ribcage. It’s one of his favorites of Dwalin’s noises, and it makes Ori smile cheekily. His other favorite noise involves more gasping and groaning and biting of lips; if he’s lucky, he’ll get to hear that one too before the sun rises.

“Hush yourself,” he says, stroking the seam where skin meets cotton. He knows now that Dwalin will almost always do exactly the opposite of what he’s told in bed. It makes for an interesting sex life.

“Dinnae think ye’d be ordering me around so soon,” Dwalin mumbles into his beard, still half-asleep. “Wee pip like you.”

Ori smiles against his chest, nosing through the thickly curling hair to find a rosy-brown nipple. He rolls it between his lips lazily. Beneath him, Dwalin’s breath stutters, and he laves it slow and hot with the flat of his tongue. “That’s because you always underestimate me.”

A slow sigh stirs the growing fringe on his forehead. “Not always.”

He places a gentle kiss over the cusp of Dwalin’s sternum, apologetic. “P’raps not.”

He burrows deeper beneath the furs, letting the humid warmth and darkness envelop him like a cocoon. With fingers that are sure and nimble even in the dark, he works each button out of its hole, all the way down Dwalin’s chest and belly. Ori’s both impressed and a little bit self-satisfied to find him well on his way to full hardness under his nightshift. They’ve shared chambers for over a month now, and a bed for several weeks, but Ori has yet to experience Dwalin at the peak of his health. A combination of medicines and a very slow recovery means the dwarf warrior has not – by his own confession – been as virile as usual, and morning erections are rare to come by.

“Good morning,” Ori says pertly, cupping that hardness in his palm. Dwalin shifts slightly, and Ori thinks he can hear a curse even through the insulating furs. Smirking, he squirms even lower, still hunched on his knees, until he can push Dwalin’s nightshift up around his waist. Here in the dark, he feels as if he is a worshipper paying homage to a very intimate, secret deity. Not that Dwalin’s prick has anything in common with Eru, Mahal forbid! But the act itself is so intensely private that it sends shivers down Ori’s spine even in the cloying heat.

With these thoughts hovering in his mind, Ori bows his head with something like reverence, bringing his mouth to the hard curve of Dwalin’s erection. The skin is silky-soft against his lips, and he can feel the ends of his braided beard moving ticklishly over Dwalin’s thigh. He moves away a bit, changing his angle, and comes down again, keeping a careful distance from the javelin injury in his leg.

Every time Ori sees the bandages, or runs his fingers over the stitches in Dwalin’s scalp, he is reminded of that day. He closes his eyes in the dark and rests his cheek against the firm, warm skin of Dwalin’s belly, breathing him in. His scent is so distinctive – familiar, now – and so soothing: like fresh-smelted iron, and deep earth, and something hot and spicy that Ori imagines could probably be found far away east. He inhales deep and slow, savoring it, as he pushes his lips against the sinuous blue curve of the tattoo on Dwalin’s prick.

Above him, the furs shift, and a massive hand descends to stroke through his hair. The skin of Dwalin’s hand is cold from being in the open air, and Ori turns his face against it. He shudders as the calloused pad of Dwalin’s thumb traces his cheekbone and down to his lips. With very little encouragement, Ori sucks it into his mouth and swirls it with his tongue, probing the nail bed and nibbling at the knuckle.

Dwalin doesn’t seem to be in a rush to move on to the main event. Wondering if he’s fallen asleep after all, Ori sits up, letting in the cool air with a gasp. “Dwalin?”

“Aye?” The older dwarf blinks at him sleepily, blue eyes stained to black by the swelling of his pupils.

“Are you – did you want me to keep going?”

“I do,” Dwalin murmurs, voice rich with good humor. “But I’m in no hurry.”

Reassured, Ori sinks back beneath the furs and takes his time following the contours of Dwalin’s body with his mouth. He spends long moments showering attention on the ripples of muscle over his ribcage, and nips tenderly all down the dark trail of hair connecting the thatch on his chest to the thatch around his privates.

The temperature rises as Ori returns to his former place between Dwalin’s legs. Here he combs his fingers through the thick curls of Dwalin’s pubic hair and lavishes his prick with nuzzling kisses, breathing in the scent of him where it’s most concentrated. Only when Dwalin is beginning to shift under him, his body reverberating with soft moans, does Ori wrap his hand around him and bring the plump, leaking head to his mouth.

If Dwalin’s scent is intoxicating, his taste is addictive. Ori laves him slowly with his tongue, staying close to the tip where his juices are potently salty and bitter. It’s strong enough to sting the back of his throat, but it’s a sensation he relishes. For Ori, it’s just one more proof that his mate is alive and well, along with the thudding beat of Dwalin’s heart when they lay close together at night, and the furnace of heat that surrounds them now.

Ori tightens his grip on Dwalin’s girth, rolling the foreskin back and forth as he drags his mouth extravagantly over the head. His other had strokes lower to roll his bollocks in his palm, and then deeper, into the damp heat between Dwalin’s thighs. If there is something Ori never thought Dwalin would enjoy, it was this: teasing at his most private entrance with a slick finger and rubbing firmly at the smooth stretch of skin just above with the pad of his thumb. To Ori it smacked of preparation, of submission. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d long ago decided that Dwalin must always be the one to penetrate his partner, and never be penetrated himself. But when Ori had first broached the topic, timid and stammering over himself in the wee hours of the morning, Dwalin had only laughed – not unkindly – and set the record straight.

_“I dunnae pretend to know your own preferences, my wee laddie, but know this of mine: I dunnae see a need for one party to always have dominance and rule over the other. To call ye my partner means that we are one – one flesh, one spirit. Equals. No matter what acts we may come to take joy in, we are neither of us better than t’other.”_

Ori hasn’t stammered since.

“Lad,” Dwalin rasps, only just audible through the layers of furs. Ori curls his finger inside Dwalin’s body and swallows him down until the generous head is bumping the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. Dwalin’s body arches under him, a strong chain pulled taut to the breaking point. He pulses against Ori’s tongue, and then his mouth is flooded with heat and bitter salt.

Ori flounders out into the open air, gasping and wiping the back of his mouth. Dwalin’s breaths come in heavy pants, but they’re already beginning to slow – the flush on his neck and face deepens and then begins to fade in the cool air. He reaches out with large hands and draws Ori to him, up to rest against his chest. With the windows wide open to the wintry air and the fire nearly dead, the stone-hewn room is frigid, but they kick off the furs anyway, needing to feel the refreshing sting after being buried in the cloying furs.

“C’mere lad,” Dwalin whispers, his voice still rough from sleep and orgasm. His hands spread large and firmly down Ori’s back, down to hitch his leg around Dwalin’s waist.

“Shhh, no, this was just… about you…” Ori’s protests die into a strangled groan as Dwalin’s broad palm finds its way between his legs. He’s bundled in his longjohns, but Dwalin doesn’t seem to mind. He massages him with slow, definite strokes until Ori’s rutting into his hand, panting and sobbing out his pleasure into Dwalin’s beard. Before long he presses down, his cry echoing in the room, and the fabric of his clothing grows damp and slightly sticky.

“There,” Dwalin grunts. He fumbles Ori free of his clothing and chucks it across the room toward the wash hamper, tugging the furs up again before Ori has the chance to feel cold. “Now go back t’ sleep.”

“You first,” whispers Ori, dazed and heavy with contentment. He lays his head on Dwalin’s broad chest and closes his eyes, drifting off to the soothing rumble of his snores. 


End file.
